


Like Family

by luckysilverbell



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Cop AU, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckysilverbell/pseuds/luckysilverbell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a (long) kink meme prompt asking for (and I paraphrase) Bilbo joining the police force and not really fitting in with the rest of the team. His captain and the lieutenant are assholes, and everyone just seems so close-knit that he feels as though he'll never fit in with them. (Full prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=25286773#t25286773)</p><p>Featuring the mischievous shenanigans of the entire Company in this hopefully decent cop!AU. (I sort of took a more humorous approach, so I hope the OP is alright with that. The prompt was pretty hilarious too.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I have made a _terrible_ mistake,” Bilbo whispered to no one in particular, dropping his coat on the nearest available surface. Which happened to be the kitchen floor, but he was beyond caring at this point. He dropped the kettle onto the front burner, maybe a bit more forcefully than necessary, and cranked the knob up to high. However, after staring at the pale blue flames of his stove for a few seconds, he switched it back off.

He needed something stronger than tea. _Much_ stronger.

The cupboard under the sink was a bit on the dusty side, and he made a mental note to clean under there whenever he got around to it. But the whiskey looked as good as ever, and Bilbo stared at the dusty glass for a moment before unscrewing the top and bringing the bottle straight to his lips. Who needed a glass, anyway?

Three long gulps later, he was beginning to feel a pleasant warmth settling in his stomach and head, and was half into his favourite armchair when he heard the doorbell. “Oh for the love of… what _now_?” he groused, setting the bottle on the coffee table and stumbling slightly as he made his way toward the door.

The doorbell rang again before he could open it, and a shrill voice sounded from the other side. “Bilbo Baggins! I know you’re in there!” Lobelia called impatiently. “Your car’s in the driveway. Now open the door!”

Bilbo had barely unlocked the door when it flew open, nearly knocking him flat on his behind as Lobelia shoved her way in. “I brought wine!” she exclaimed melodically, producing the bottle with a flourish. “Your first day on the job! We have to celebrate. Oh, don’t look so put out!” she added, noting the exasperated look on his face as she breezed into the living room. “I know you’re tired, but I simply _must_ hear everything! …oh.” She gingerly picked up the whiskey bottle with a gloved hand, and cast Bilbo a withering look. “Seems you’ve started without me. That bad, then?”

“You have no idea,” Bilbo groaned. “Thank you for the wine. Here, I’ll get us some glasses. Are you hungry? I haven’t been to the store, but I think I’ve got some—”

But Lobelia had already bustled past him into the kitchen, familiar with the layout as her own house, and pulled two decidedly large glasses from the cupboard. “Never mind that,” she said offhandedly. “You’ve had a rough day, from the looks of it. We’ll order in. Something spicy, I think.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Bilbo said, flopping down into his armchair. “Thanks, Lobelia. I owe you.”

“Stop that nonsense this minute,” Lobelia scolded lightly, emerging from the kitchen with two glasses filled to the brim. “It’s a pinot noir,” she added, setting his glass on the table before taking a sip of hers and settling on the couch. “Now, tell me everything.”

Bilbo sighed and took a long drink from his glass, slumping slightly as he did so. “It was a disaster,” he said after a minute. “A complete, utter disaster.”

“You’re going to have to be a hell of a lot more specific than that,” Lobelia replied, arching an eyebrow. “You were so excited about switching departments when you left this morning. What happened?”

“I walked in the door,” Bilbo grumbled. “Everything went downhill from there.” Clearly not impressed with his ambiguity, Lobelia fixed him with a level stare over the top of her glass, and Bilbo sighed. “It started this morning,” he began.


	2. Chapter 2

When he left the house at 7AM sharp, Bilbo had been sure he would arrive at the station early for his 8 o’clock shift. He’d made the trip in less than thirty minutes the week before, when he’d stopped by to drop off the last of his paperwork, and figured he’d have some time to get acclimated before his shift officially started.

What he hadn’t expected was the four-car pileup on the freeway, effectively bringing traffic to a standstill for miles. “This is not happening,” Bilbo groaned, whacking his head on the steering wheel as he caught sight of the time. 8:05 glared back at him from the dash in all its lime-green mockery.

By the time he pulled into the parking lot and finally found a parking space, it was 8:35. ‘Wonderful first impression,’ he thought furiously, all but sprinting through the entryway, where he slid to a halt at the front desk. “Hi,” he said breathlessly, mentally cursing himself as the lady looked up at him, a bemused grin on her face as he desperately attempted to catch his breath.

“Hi,” she replied simply. “You’ll want the fifth floor. Thorin’s at the end of the hall on your left.”

“Thorin?” Bilbo repeated breathlessly, trying not to look too winded.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” the lady clarified, and Bilbo’s mouth parted in a soundless ‘ah’ as realization dawned on him.

“Right,” he said. “Fifth floor?”

“On your left,” the lady repeated. “Just follow the noise.”

“Follow the… right.” Bilbo frowned, then shook his head. “Sure. Thank you!” He made a beeline for the elevators, hastily adjusting his shirt as the doors opened with a faint _ding._ Bad enough he was late on his first day, he could only make it worse showing up rumpled and out of breath.

As soon as the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor, Bilbo realized what the lady at the front desk had meant by ‘noise’. What sounded like the bassline from a teenager’s car was all but shaking the walls, and was emanating from the end of the hall to his left. “This looks promising,” he mumbled.

As soon as he opened the door, he found the source of the music. The detective—or, so Bilbo assumed from the shield dangling around his neck—couldn’t have been older than him. Perhaps younger, if his behaviour was anything to go by. The detective had the radio on his desk cranked up as high as it would go, and was singing (and Bilbo used it in the loosest sense of the word) along and making some attempt at dancing. And when he said ‘dancing’, Bilbo felt ‘grinding against the blond guy trying to do his paperwork’ to be a more accurate description.

_“Til we get it right, we gon fuck some more~”_

Fortunately, the detective’s colleagues were too distracted by this wholly unprofessional behaviour to notice Bilbo’s arrival, and he took the opportunity to slink along the wall towards the office at the back of the room. A well-worn, once-shiny inscription on the door: _‘Thorin Oakenshield, Captain’_ , glinted back at him as he raised his fist to knock.

When he got no response, he knocked again, somewhat louder. Still no answer. Hesitantly, Bilbo tried the handle and, finding it unlocked, slowly pushed the door open. The office was dimly-lit, and in an instant, he could see why.

A rough-looking man lay sprawled on the worn couch, a pillow over his face, and a tattooed hand resting on the floor. Bilbo frowned. This man _couldn’t_ be the Thorin Oakenshield he’d heard stories of back in West Farthing. Could he?

“Ehm… Captain?” he said softly, then clearing his throat, tried again. “Captain?”

“He ain’t here,” the man grumbled.

“Sorry?” Bilbo replied, frowning. “Then, who exactly are you, if I may ask?”

The man pulled the pillow off his face, and Bilbo had maybe a second to note the dark circles under his eyes before the tirade began. “Didn’t hear ya right,” he snapped. “Coulda swore ya said ‘If I may ask, _Lieutenant’_.”

“Oh!” Bilbo would never admit to squeaking, but to his defense, the man was even more intimidating when he was awake. Dark tattoos lined the crown of his head, only adding to the overbearing presence he exerted. “Sorry, I—”

He was saved further awkwardness by the door banging open and reverberating off the wall, narrowly missing Bilbo by mere centimeters. The man was on his feet as another, taller man stormed into the office, looking (if at all possible) even more intimidating. “The judge turned it down, Dwalin,” the newcomer growled, and Bilbo unconsciously took a step back. Something about his voice was genuinely terrifying, and Bilbo found himself hoping against hope that this wasn’t the Captain he had to explain his tardiness to.

“Yer shittin’ me,” Dwalin exclaimed, seeming to forget Bilbo’s presence entirely. “What more does he want? The fingerprint was a—”

“—partial match, at best. The judge says we need more to go on.”

“More to go… What about Bofur’s report then?”

“He wants more ‘conclusive evidence’,” came the bitter reply. “Which we are completely lacking.”

Dwalin ground his teeth. “So do we send Nori in, or what?”

“That may be our only—KÍLI!” he roared suddenly, and Bilbo let out a small yelp. “Turn that shit off, or it’s going out the window!”

The music stopped abruptly, followed by a voice calling out a muffled “Sorry, boss!”

Boss. Bilbo winced. There was no denying it. This was Thorin, then.

“And who the hell are you?” Thorin asked suddenly, rounding on Bilbo as though just now realizing he was in the room.

“I… I’m…” Bilbo resisted the urge to smack himself in the face. “Bilbo Baggins, sir,” he managed finally. “I’m—”

“—an hour late?” Dwalin interrupted, and Bilbo winced.

“Not an hour,” he corrected irritably. “Thirty-five minutes.”

“Oh, well _that’s_ a relief,” Dwalin replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thirty-five minutes. My mistake.”

Bilbo’s face reddened, but he held back any response he would have liked to give. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said instead. “Pileup on the highway. Won’t happen again.”

Thorin had the most… peculiar expression on his face. One Bilbo couldn’t exactly place. “Pileup on the highway?” he repeated slowly. “We call that ‘morning traffic’ over here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bilbo replied through gritted teeth. “Now, is there something I should be doing, or…?”

Thorin shook his head, and for a moment, Bilbo could have _swore_ he saw the captain roll his eyes. “Since you seem to know next to nothing about this part of town, Baggins, I’m inclined to say ‘no’,” he began. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and take those” he indicated a stack of boxes in the corner “downstairs to Ori. And while you’re down there, see if you can find any files related to any of the information in there.”

“You’re sending me to Records?” Bilbo exclaimed, indignant.

“You have a problem with that?”

“Well, _yes!_ ” he said. “There must be a dozen boxes there! I’ll be down there for a month!”

“Fourteen boxes, actually,” Dwalin replied with a smirk.

Bilbo glared. “ _Thank_ you,” he snapped, grabbing the first box without any further preamble. It was easily twice as heavy as any box its size should have been, but he refused to comment on it. From what he’d seen in those past five minutes, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find it filled with rocks.

* * *

 

“And it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet,” Bilbo concluded, draining the last of his wine.

“Well, that’s hardly fair!” Lobelia exclaimed, nudging the whiskey bottle in his direction. “You’d think he’d have other people to sort through the records room,” she added as an afterthought. “Hardly a job for a detective.”

Bilbo nodded as he grabbed the bottle, and poured a copious amount of the amber liquid into his glass. “Honestly, I think he just wanted me out of the way,” he admitted sullenly.

“You weren’t even in the way to begin with!” came the indignant reply.

With a small shake of his head, Bilbo said, “It’s not like that.” He took a sip of the whiskey, and continued, “More like… they all seem quite… close.” He frowned, tongue feeling a bit heavier in his mouth. “Like we all were at West Farthing, but… more so. They’re like a family, I suppose. And I doubt there’s any room for me in there.”

“You,” Lobelia said primly, “need to drink slower. It sounds like we’re discussing the popular clique in high school all over again.”

“But that’s exactly what it’s like,” Bilbo replied. “They’re all best friends. How am I supposed to have any sort of camaraderie with a group _that_ tight? Plus, _Captain_ Oakenshield has made it perfectly clear that I’m totally useless.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Lobelia took another sip of her wine. “Well, you’ve got me to nine o’clock,” she said. “What happened next?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so as I said earlier, this is the first time I've ever done an AU fanfic. But to make matters worse, I've never written any sort of cop fic, and I have no idea how things work at a police station. (I mean, I saw some cop movies and stuff, but that's about it).   
> So, what I'm trying to say is if you have any ideas, or any feedback, or any advice, or anything, please let me know. I'm having a lot of fun filling this prompt, but I'm really worried that it sucks.

The door labeled ‘Records’ was locked. Or course it was, Bilbo thought with a sigh. Just his luck. But just as he raised a fist to knock, there was a buzz, and the door popped open. The man holding it open seemed friendly enough, or at least, friendlier than Thorin or Dwalin had been. His eyes were crinkled slightly at the corners, and his hair and beard were only slightly whiter than the walls. “Here, laddie, let me help you with that,” he said, plucking the box from Bilbo’s arms with practiced ease.

“You sure?” Bilbo asked, and the man simply shook his head.

“I’ve been moving boxes down here all morning,” he said pleasantly, dropping the box on a nearby countertop with a thud. “Most of them are heavier than this.”

Bilbo rubbed his shoulder, willing some of the feeling back into it. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re Ori, then?”

“No, Ori went upstairs,” came the reply. “That will be his third soda, if I’m not mistaken. My name is Balin. And I assume you were sent to us by Thorin.”

Bilbo’s mouth hung open slightly. “I… yes,” he said, amazed. “How did you know that?”

“When you get to be my age, laddie, you just know these things,” Balin replied.

“That’s… amazing,” Bilbo said.

“Mister Balin, are you pulling your psychic act again?” interrupted a new voice.

Bilbo glanced over his shoulder. “Act?” he repeated.

The new arrival, who couldn’t be anyone but Ori, going by the soda clasped in his hand, gave a noncommittal shrug. “Got a call from upstairs saying you were on your way down,” he said. “Said to keep you busy.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be busy,” Bilbo replied with a dry laugh. “I’ve got twelve...no, thirteen more of these to bring down.” He slapped a hand onto the box. “You wouldn’t happen to have some sort of computerized filing system down here, would you?” he asked.

Ori gave a soft snort, and Balin shook his head. “Come here for a moment,” he said, pulling out a keyring from his pocket. Bilbo followed him to the large gate at the far end of the room, stomach knotting with dread. “The system is in the process of being updated,” he said, fumbling with the lock momentarily before it clicked open. “But, as you can see, it may take some time.”

The last time Bilbo remembered looking at so many shelves with such hatred was the time he’d been forced to search through the tax law section of his college library for his thesis paper. Easily twice his height, the shelves came short of the ceiling by maybe an inch, and at least fifty stretched from wall to wall as far as Bilbo could see. “And how many of these have been put on the computer?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“These are the ones we haven’t uploaded yet,” Ori answered, and Bilbo fought the urge to bang his head against the wall.

“Any sort of organization to them?” he asked.

“Um,” Ori glanced at Balin, who shrugged. “Older ones over there, I think,” he said, pointing towards the back of the room. “They added more shelves when we started running out of room, so the newer ones’ll be on this side. You’ve just got to look at the years on the boxes to find the general period.”

“Any idea what you’re looking for, laddie?” Balin asked, sounding almost apologetic.

Bilbo shook his head. “Haven’t even had a chance to see what’s in the box,” he admitted.

“Bet I know what it is,” Ori piped up, voice punctuated by the hiss of his Mountain Dew bottle. “Bolg’s sentencing was last week, wasn’t it?”

Balin nodded. “Aye, last Wednesday.”

“So that’s what those boxes are, then?” Bilbo asked. “Everything we have on Bolg?”

“I’d imagine so,” Balin said, locking the gate once more after ushering Bilbo and Ori out.

Bilbo tugged the lid off the box and pulled out the first file that caught his eye. Staring back at him through a series of mug shots was easily the ugliest… thing… Bilbo had ever laid eyes on. One of his eyes--what was left of it, in any case--was a straight milk-white, and the entire left side of his face, plus a good chunk of his nose, seemed to have been at some point ripped apart by dogs, then sewn back together by someone who’d clearly seen too many Frankenstein movies.

“Goodness, what happened to his face?” Bilbo breathed. “It look like…”

“Like he got mauled by a dog?” Ori supplied helpfully, and Bilbo nodded. “That’s because he did.”

Balin chuckled. “Thorin was in a rare mood that day,” he added. “It was the first time they tried to bring Bolg in. Assault charge, I think it was…”

“Yeah, it says here…” Bilbo squinted slightly at the page. “he went after a woman with a pickaxe. Classy.” The report was brief and to the point, and Bilbo almost found himself smirking at the matter-of-fact tone the writer had taken.

‘Suspect had weapon in hand when officers arrived on scene. Suspect was told to drop his weapon. He did not comply, and attempted to flee the scene on foot. Suspect was brought down by RLB5 278-7925-3714, “Asshole”. Extensive facial reconstructive surgery will likely be required.’

“Who names a dog ‘Asshole’?”

“That thing was a beast,” Balin corrected, relaxing into the chair behind his desk. Bilbo thought he looked a bit uncomfortable, but said nothing. “Part dog and part demon, if you ask me.”

Bilbo scoffed. “Well, yeah, if my name was ‘Asshole’, I’d be bitter, too.”

The next half-hour passed mostly in silence, broken occasionally by Ori’s burps or, less frequently, a knock at the door. Bilbo was growing more frustrated with each passing minute. Research was nothing new to him, but that didn’t make it any less tedious. And adding to the frustration was the simple fact that half the people mentioned throughout the first ream of paper on the topic of Bolg were already behind bars themselves. Or dead, in several memorable cases which led him to the discovery that the department kept all open-and-shut homicide case files on an entirely different floor.

“I swear, when I’m through with this, we,” he indicated himself, Ori and Balin, “are going to have a serious chat about organization.”


End file.
